#Is that Fingon's crown? who knows!

[myceliumelium]

I'm having way too much fun with my new fabric technique

[shrikeseams]

You know what the politics of first age beleriand needs more of? Attempted assassinations. Every 50 or so years some nobody should try to off some of the elvish political leaders. Like.

Fingolfin? A fanatic feanorian OR anyone who lost a loved one crossing the ice!

Fingon? Ditto, except also anyone he led into the first kinslaying, or who loved someone he drew into the first kinslaying.

Maedhros gets like, all of the above! One of his dad's or brothers' followers who's mad about his leadership and/or yielding the crown! Anyone angry about Generic Feanorian Crimes! Some sinda who just found out that an 9ld friend died at alqualonde, or who's unhappy about feanorian political influence in their territory! Anyone who's convinced he's a thrall! Most of these apply to his brothers as well!

Thingol could easily draw ire from any pre-darkening inhabitants of beleriand who think he should have defended them better against melkor, and/or made more of a push against noldor encroachment.

And of course in at least one version Mîm did try to kill Finrod!

And none of this even touches on humans taking some shots!

[searchingforserendipity25]

Diplomatic Concerns. (russingon, on ao3).

When they did at last come together, it did not feel like an inevitability to Maedhros. Far easier it was to believe - to contrive - ways in which they might betray themselves, and allow their understanding to betray their people.

This, they both agreed, could not be permitted. Maedhros would have loved Fingon less, if he had been willing to brave the storm of opposition and defiance their open courtship would cause.

His people had cause, just cause to stand against it; and Maedhros had his own brothers and vassals to rule over, in less official fashion, without the benefit of official authority to put them in place if it prove needed.

They pledged their troth under the stars, a wordless promise with no bitter oath to mar it; and thereafter took the greatest care and discretion that none guessed at it.

-

It was some effort, Maedhros admitted, if only in their very secretive correspondence, written on hidden wink in the back of their official missives.

His mouth ached, his arms felt emptier - poetry, he found, spoke to him beyond the pleasure of precise meter and rhyme.

It was absurd; it was dangerous. Always he kept Fingon swept from his mind, lest some of his heart bleed through enough to be perceived; and always it was work, to keep Fingon out of the forefront of his thinking.

And it was mortifying, too. To be infatuated, to have a joy to hide, to know himself cherished and desired - he could not have bourne it to be known, not easily.

It was only some consolation to know Fingon found his pining ardor very pleasing, being that he was at too great a distance to do much with that. As a matter of fact, it made it all the more torturous.

This lasted all through the first fortnight of the autumn summit.

Maglor looked at him indulgently. “How many horses can Fingon possibly need? Nay, not at all. You must give him the best foal, and rear it by your hand, and drape it in Fingon’s raiment and colours, and teach it the signals he favours. Quality, not merely quantity! Do you hear me wasting breath on too many love songs? There must be a measure, by which things are made precious.” 

“You were song-wed by proxy fashion to an ascetic zither-master you knew from correspondence only, and met thrice every ten yéni,” Maedhros told him. 

Maglor shrugged. “Once every ten yéni was enough. It made the anticipation all the sweeter.” 

Maedhros raised all three colts to perfect training. If some of his braids were chewed away, and much of the fur of his best coats, then at least Fingon was suitably impressed.

-

None guesses at our affections, Maedhros amended on his next letter, besides Maglor, and his silence is our boon. Fingon was swift to tease him for that - and in truth he had barely bothered to hide it from Maglor.

There was little use; therefore he worried little. All the rest of his brothers held their own domains, were occupied with their duties - if it became pressing, he could always invent a new task to distract their tracks.

He had forgotten Caranthir. Caranthir never needed to be given new directions; if anything, he excelled at taking attentive initiative, especially on matters of international commerce.

“I,” Maedhros said. “Have never offered any thing, to lord or vassal, besides gifts of friendship, and diplomacy, and cunning morsels of what might attained with a better trade arrangement.” 

“Explain to me how Fingon’s newest gem-crown counts as a diplomatic expense,” Caranthir demanded.

-

Besides Caranthir and Maglor, none noticed. 

The next time they met - a well-prepared hunting retreat, and the anticipation did have a certain strain of pleasure in it - it was only some time after the first enthusiastic greetings that they found time and patience to speak at lenght about their dealings, those small or great matters they had not trusted even to set to hidden writing.

 "Did you -”

"I told none. Besides those who know."

“Are you entirely certain. Amras and Amrod keep sending me cured meats? Excellent sausages for my table, and lovely truffles. For some reason; they did not last year.”

"They are not poisoned," Maedhros assured automatically. Then hesitated. "They do like to experiment with spices and certain powders, however."

"I noticed," Fingon said, mouth curved. It was a lovely smile, better for being not amused; Maedhros suffered the rather stupid instinct to kiss his cheek. "Around the time the sugared mushrooms caused an apparition of a great mammoth grazing upon my father's head as we sat in public Council. It appeared purple to my eyes, the mammoth; also my father."

Maedhros had suffered great torments of the flesh and spirit; the image made him wince with genuine feeling. Fingolfin kept a very eclectic conjunction of lords near him, Sindar and Noldor and Avari, all of them clever, cunning, far-seeing people with an unhappy habit of keeping a wide awareness to every stray thought that they might fish out slyly round them on a wide range of space. It made Maedhros feel unusually warmly towards his straightforward, stone-silent dwarves and the fierce, scarred, closed minds that came to serve Himring. 

"You need to string them up from a high tower," Maedhros concluded. "You shall have their apologies in a season."

"Need is a strong word," said Fingon. But his mouth was twitching, more genuinely.

Through the place where their spirits pressed together he passed on the faint, kaleidoscopic memories of that afternoon - Maedhros had stifle his own crinkling eyes. It was impossible not to admit Fingolfin did look rather fetching in tints of purple; and the mammoth was very realistic.

"If you want them to redeem themselves, have them send more next year. I would rather have enjoyed them in privacy. Lalwen thought it was very amusing. Eventually; she stole the rest of the bounty, and left me none at all, which was very like her and rather a disappointment. If your brothers are found wandering the wilds naked and intoxicated, you shall find no way to prove it was her work."

"They will enjoy it too much." Maedhros thought of when the twins's nonsense had been joyful, once. And involved less paperwork. The worst of it was that they likely thought it a good gift.The twins had ever liked Fingon well enough, as much as they liked anyone outside their enclosing understanding.

Fingon turned around, with that sweeping grace that made him deadly. In a moment he had rolled them over. His hands dug into the loam around Maedhros's head; his legs tangled in him, pressing down, delicious.

There you are, he thought, directly at Maedhros. No distance at all, and his laughing mind dizzying like a windfall, a sweeping rush. You stay away too often, Russandol, even here.

"Let them," he said, voice low and warm, close enough Maedhros could feel it thrum in his own throat. He was so very warm. Maedhros's whole body felt alive under him, as if he were fresh from a battle; as if it could feel alive and joyful with no violence. "I mean to enjoy myself with a clear mind. I mean to recall you perfectly while we are apart."

-

Maedhros, rather wisely, he thought, kept any commissioned tokens away from familiar forges.

It was a marvel, the inspiration which which Curufin could contrive as an insult. In this he truly was Fëanor's heir.

I will not have any of our Father's house be known for offering substandard works, he wrote, a stiff note of parchment atop a casket.

Inside the casket was a treasure - elf-made emeralds, and rubies, fine gleaming garnets that caught the golden light from the candles and would assuredly shine beauteously strung around golden ribbons, and on the chained earrings Fingon favoured.

 Keep those Dwarven pieces away from Fingolfin and his ilk, lest he rethink our work agreements. Have you lost your sense, along with your shame? Findekáno's not the least suited to Belegost's blue-steel and sapphires, they wash him out terribly, I do not know how Fingolfin can be so tasteless in his heraldry as not to consider it.

-

Maedhros recalled a time when his brother at least pretended to attend to elvish mores, those small contrivances of decent conduct. Such as pretending at ignorance. Pretending at ignorance had been a good habit, one Huan's master remembered these days merely when it was convenient for him.

Celegorm only looked at him in a flat vulpine fashion, nostrils flaring. Worse than a smirk, worse than mischief. Maedhros had seen it turned on others often enough; he could not say he enjoyed the very unpleasant awareness with which it remind everyone of all the passionate embraces they may or may not have indulged in the wild, where a little bird might carry gossip, or a finicky squirrel pass on mockery.

It also made him rethink the wisdom of wearing Fingon's undershirt under his tunic.

"Not a word," he ordered.

Celegorm only whistled in wolf-like fashion and darted away from his swing.

The next time Fingon dared him for a swim after a lengthy ride up the hills of Barad Eithel, Maedhros quite ruined the romance of it all by insisting on raising a tarp-and-leather tent beforehand.

-

Huan had the good grace to wait until they passed each other on an empty corridor before stopping to block his path.

Oromë's hunting hound looked at him with those terribly knowing dark eyes and let out a soft snorting sound. It was not a very approving woof; a little mournful, perhaps. Maedhros did not speak Hound.

"Do not you start also," Maedhros said. His tone held little effort, as it ever did in these cases.

He had to fight the instinct to cross his arms. He refused to be easily biddable or intimidated. As a matter of principle; he had few of those, and it tended to be better to keep to those he did maintain.

Woof-woof, said Huan.

"We are all Doomed regardless," argued Maedhros.

A sniff, rather pointed. A little charming, perhaps - none of his brothers had offered, so far.

"It is very generous of you to offer," Maedhros said. "No biting will be necessary. I would rather Fingon whole as he may."

Huan licked his bad arm. Shifting ears, which, in all honesty, were insulting. 

"I am not letting myself be carried off as a mate to establish a new collective dynamic as pertaining previous intra-community competitions," Maedhros said, rather stiffly. "No, not though I was stolen from the Enemy for that purpose."

Maedhros did not speak Hound, as such; but Huan and him understood each other a little. If anyone was going to look at him with the knowledge that Maedhros would have let himself be carried off as a prize, and possibly did not dislike the notion, he would rather it was him.

"I will bring you some of that good hind meat from Dor-Lómin," he conceded, eager to bribe him away.

Huan's dog-grin finally widened. Maedhros, relieved to be free from evaluation, scratched his chin until his wagging tail was thumping the carpet. Some relatives, he thought, were harder to please than others.

-

"We have failed at every avenue," Maedhros concluded, as displeased as he could stand to be just then. "Let this be not a sign of our joined efforts to come!"

Fingon was rather less moved at their failure than Maedhros would have expected. Possibly that was the effort of the long ride to the fortress, and their - reunion. Maedhros did not want him alarmed and on his feet, as such; but he did eye his complacence a little.

"Brothers are not Balrogs. It could be worse," Fingon said, very confidently.

Maedhros lifted his head from Fingon's chest. His own eyes were growing half-lidded; his muscles too felt weary, suffused still with satisfaction. Himring's walls, warm within like a living body, rumbled faintly with the noise of their gaseous pipes. He was warm, and sated, and all in all quite in accord with the form of the world, at least for the foreseeable candle-mark.

It was only that he had not trusted messengers to pass on the news; and he had felt an urgency to share the state of affairs with Fingon for months. They had determined to be fully discreet.

"How?"

"Turgon and Aredhel might return," Fingon said promptly. His voice showed he had considered the matter at great length, and was very amused by the way Maedhros went still against him. "And be less generous with their blindness than the rest of my - our kin."

"They might not have noticed. Your father has not."

Fingon lifted himself on his elbow, and looked at him, a little pityingly.

"Beloved," he said. "Whom do you think invented the art of invisible writing?"

[echo-bleu]

Noldor hair headcanons (1/4)

With AO3 down, it seems like a good time for some good old tumblr bullet-point pseudo-fic (I'll post it on AO3 eventually).

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | On AO3

Note: Inspiration for some parts of this came from @mynameisjessejk's wonderful Otter Mayhem series which you should go read when it's possible again.

The Noldor wear their hair in elaborate braids.

Hairstyle is a status thing, so noble Noldor have the most complex styles. They’re meant to show off craft, so there’s a lot of jewellery and gemstones involved, and the nobles’ hairstyles purposefully can’t be self-braided.

But touching hair is a very intimate thing and it’s never done by servants, always by family (spouse, siblings, parents or children). It’s a show of love and respect, if someone has a particularly complex hairstyle it’s supposed to mean that they’re well-loved.

Now Finwë as the king must have the most complex hairstyle of all. Míriel was of course very good at it, she’d weave and sew beads into his hair every morning, making each hairstyle a work of art.

When she fades, Fëanor is still really young, and he has to learn real quick to do his father’s hair, which he of course takes as a challenge. He starts making all of Finwë’s hair jewellery himself, he experiments with dozens of braiding styles. In the early months/years of their grief Finwë finds a lot of comfort in having his hair braided and they’ll both spend entire days beside Míriel’s body, with Fëanor braiding his father’s hair over and over.

Then Indis comes along, and hair braiding is traditionally the spouse’s work. It’s very hard for Fëanor not to feel like he’s been replaced (and not just his mother), especially since Indis has zero interest in it and Finwë’s hairstyles grow markedly simpler. Which is also not great for his reputation.

Nerdanel and Fëanor, once they marry, are extremely competitive and keep trying to outdo each other’s braids. It’s highly entertaining to outsiders, especially since it’s the only remnant of the Crown Prince’s more playful side. When little Maitimo comes out with red hair like Nerdanel’s, Fëanor bitches about having to make even more copper jewellery (he’s secretly overjoyed because he loves Nerdanel’s hair).

Fëanor is also careful to always have better braids than his half brothers, though Findis starts braiding Fingolfin and Finarfin’s hair as soon as she’s old enough, and she’s pretty good at it, unlike Indis.

Anairë’s hair texture is very different from anyone Fingolfin knows. He’s never been that into hair before, but he learns to do her braids with his tongue poking out. Once she figures out what to do with straight hair, she braids his into brand new styles that Fëanor is terribly jealous of.

Fingon has extremely thick kinky hair that takes a ridiculously long time to braid, and he’s very proud of it, thank you very much.

Thankfully for Fingolfin and Anairë, none of their other children have hair quite as thick.

Eärwen is Teleri and keeps her hair mostly loose. She wants none of that nonsense, especially not gems in her hair, come on. If she puts anything in her hair it’s gonna be pearls. She’ll do Finarfin’s hair if he really insists on it but if he wants the children to follow Noldor rites so much, he’ll have to take care of it himself. (He’s pretty good at it, actually.)

Maedhros and Fingon start doing each other’s hair in secret before Fëanor’s exile.

Celegorm switches from Noldor style to hunting braids when he joins Oromë’s hunt. They’re more practical and involve a lot less metal.

People have whole legends about how great it must be to braid Artanis’s hair, but it’s actually really fine and fragile and a nightmare. She insists that the only one who can do it right is Finrod. He tries to foist that chore on others a lot.

Aredhel and Curufin bond over hating to have their hair touched (sensory issues). Eventually they start doing each other’s hair because they know what to avoid.

Fëanor asking Galadriel for her hair is an Actual Taboo given that they’re not close (by the time Gimli asks, Galadriel has adopted Sindarin hair practices, but it’s also a fuck-you to Fëanor that she accepts).

At Losgar, (lightly-toasted) Amrod has part of his hair burned off. He is, after that, the very first elf to sport a side-cut, as hair won’t grow back over the scars. He never let anyone but his twin do his hair again.

Crossing the Helcaraxë, Fingolfin’s people try to keep up with tradition, but hair-braiding is hard when your fingers are constantly frozen stiff.

Still, Fingon insists on doing his father’s hair every day, even when he nearly loses fingers to frostbite.

He refuses to let anyone do the same for him, though, and he’s the first to start braiding his own hair. That’s when he starts braiding in golden ribbons, because they’re easier to do than beads, and frozen metal can burn skin.

Gradually they move away from long flowing braids and start making up crown-braid styles that protect their ears. As they progress, braiding becomes less and less about status and more and more practical.

Turgon and Elenwë (who adopted the Noldor style upon marrying) still keep to the tradition and braid each other’s hair and Idril’s right up until Elenwë dies. After that Turgon doesn’t let anyone touch his hair again until Gondolin (and then only Idril).

Finrod and Galadriel do each other’s hair. Galadriel’s fine, brittle hair suffers a lot in the cold, and for a long time she’s afraid that it will never go back to its former glory. It does eventually, but it takes decades.

In Beleriand, Maglor’s main contribution as King Regent is the invention of Mourning Braids (and also a slightly unhealthy number of laments).

Let’s be honest, he’s wearing them more for Maedhros than for Fëanor or Finwë, even though Maedhros is demonstrably still alive.

(No one thinks that will last.)

(Maglor can’t go save his brother and the guilt is staggering.)

(For some reason, Curufin is the one who does Maglor’s impossibly complex Kingly Mourning Braids.)

Then Helcaraxë Team arrives with their frozen fingers and their crown braids and It’s A Mess, Actually.

The Sun has just risen and Fingon’s golden ribbons are really blinding, no one can even look at him.

Listen, they haven’t had proper light in about forty years, they’re really light-sensitive now.

Everyone argues, Fingon makes at least two attempts to sneak out to Thangorodrim but he’s caught because he’s just way too shiny.

Third time’s the charm.

The only reason Maedhros doesn’t see him before he hears him is that he’s even more light-sensitive and just keeps his eyes closed. Also he’s tired. So very tired.

In Angband, Sauron took great pleasure in hacking Maedhros’s hair off and messing with it. When he’s rescued, what has regrown is a tangled, discoloured mess and they have to cut it all off.

Fingon stays with Maedhros a lot throughout his (physical) recovery, which in my mind takes at least the 55 years between his rescue and Dagor Aglareb, and he braids Maedhros’s hair every day, even at the start when it’s barely past his ear. Eventually Maedhros stops fighting and crying when someone touches his hair.

Mostly.

Fingon does tone down the golden ribbons eventually. Mostly because he runs out of Valinorian gold and has to do with Beleriand gold, which just isn’t the same.

To be continued.

[thelordofgifs]

In light of recent interesting discourse about Beren and Lúthien's Silmaril theft, and the Fëanorions' priorities in the lead-up to Nirnaeth and after, I started wondering how things might have changed if B&L had managed to steal two Silmarils rather than one. Would pulling the Union together be harder with only one jewel left to draw focus in Angband?

Then as soon as I thought about it some more, I realised the most inevitable path diverged earlier than that.

Then I started writing a fic, got 400 words in, and realised I wanted to actually figure out what happened first. So here's a half (or potentially a smaller fraction) of a sort of bullet point fic/plan/thing, which may or may not get properly written up later. First I need to work out where to go from here.

Angrist was forged by the greatest of the Dwarf-smiths in the master-workshops of Nogrod. It cuts two Silmarils from Morgoth's iron crown before the blade snaps, and Morgoth stirs in his enchanted sleep.

Beren passes one Silmaril to Lúthien, and they run for it.

Carcharoth still meets them, snarling, at the gate. Beren still holds out a Silmaril to ward him off. His hand still gets bitten off.

But when the Eagles come for them, and Lúthien clambers sobbing onto Thorondor's back, she clasps a Silmaril in her hand.

The Eagles bear them towards Doriath, and the Treelight undiminished shines out over Dorthonion and Gondolin.

In chilly Himring, Maglor is shaken awake from nightmares of fire and smoke by his eldest brother, who drags him out of bed and towards the window. "Look! Is that not a Silmaril that shines now in the North?"

Maglor recognises it, of course. Moreover, he recognises the size and shape of Eagles in flight, even at a distance. Recognises, too, that as often as not they bear doom itself upon their great feathered backs.

(His father's jewel stinging his Oath awake, his brother's emaciated bleeding body wrapped in Fingon's cloak - they all mean failure.)

"Thingol's daughter and the mortal must have succeeded," he says. "What can we do?"

Maedhros and Maglor, you see, are Not Happy with the news out of Nargothrond.

That Celegorm wanted to force an elf-maid to wed against her will, after what they heard befell Aredhel—

That Curufin could turn against his favourite cousin, and betray him to his death—

"I am afraid," says Maedhros, "of what it will make us do. What it will make us become."

"We could ignore it," says Maglor, whose first response is always inaction. "Let it go to Doriath—" But it is hard even to finish the sentence, with the Oath choking his words.

And there is a bigger problem: Celegorm and Curufin, who are sleeping now (it is only Maedhros who can be relied upon to pace the fortress by night), will not do so forever. They have already attacked Thingol's daughter once - will they do so again, before she can pass into the safety of her mother's Girdle?

"We have to get to Doriath before they do," says Maedhros, and wonders when his little brothers became the threat to be outpaced.

"And then what?" asks Maglor, who never shies from difficult questions.

Maedhros gives him one of his quick strange smiles. "This is how it works, you know," he says. "Huan has turned from Tyelko. Tyelpë has repudiated Curvo. It turns you into the worst version of yourself, and then it strips away the best thing you have left."

Maedhros has ridden out to claim a Silmaril before, and lost all of himself in the process.

Maglor, too, has been offered all he ever wanted - his dearest brother, returned to him - and turned away for the sake of the Oath he renewed at his father's deathbed.

They are both afraid of what they could become.

They ride out from Himring anyway, swiftly and secretly, before the dawn.

Meanwhile, Thorondor sets Beren and Lúthien down on Doriath's southern border.

Huan comes to join them, and with the power of the Silmaril, Beren is healed sooner than he might have been, otherwise.

The Quest is fulfilled. Beren has no reason to stay away from Thingol's house.

Instead of wandering in the wilds, the lovers return to Menegroth, present a Silmaril, and promptly get married.

Thingol is very surprised (and overjoyed) to see them; the last news he had of Lúthien was that she had vanished from Nargothrond.

In fact, he's just sent out a couple of messengers, led by Mablung Heavy-hand, with a scathing letter to Maedhros Fëanorion demanding his aid in finding the princess.

North of the Girdle: "Hey, isn't that Maedhros Fëanorion?"

"Sure is," says Mablung, who was at the Mereth Aderthad.

"Hail, Mablung of Doriath!" calls Maedhros, who never forgets a face. "What news from King Thingol?"

Well, there isn't news as such. Just... fury.

Maedhros considers the merits of keeping his cards close to his chest versus the dire diplomatic situation he's currently in, and opts to share what they saw from Himring, and what it bodes for Beren's success.

He decides not to share that Lúthien was definitely with Beren, which he knows because his brothers attacked her.

Maglor is not sure how stopping to chat with an Iathren marchwarden is going to get them closer to a Silmaril, but he isn't in the habit of arguing with Maedhros.

Anyway, before the conversation can wrap up, a marauding werewolf appears.

Right. Carcharoth.

The Iathrim make the sensible call and scramble up some trees. Maglor follows a beat later.

Noldor don't climb trees very often. It isn't one of the skills Maedhros has had cause to practice one-handed.

Not that it matters, because he's frozen where he stands, eyes wide and bright and thoughtful.

This is unusual. Maedhros would not be the most renowned warrior of the Noldor if he were constantly dissociating in the midst of battle.

He saves the dissociation for after the battle, thank you.

The wolf is almost upon him.

Well, thinks Maglor, about time I did some saving for a change.

Maglor is not Lúthien. Does he need to be? He knows enough about madness, and enough about torment. He knows how to sing the suffering to sleep.

He drops down from his perch to begin a lullaby.

Carcharoth slows down when he sings, and comes to a momentary halt, and Maglor takes the time to hiss, "Nelyo, run—"

"They burned him," Maedhros breathes, still with that bright faraway look in his eyes that means he is half-lost in memory. "His hands were black and ruined. No evil thing may touch them."

The wolf lunges.

[I want to kill Maglor off here but I'm a coward. so.]

Carcharoth savages Maglor's leg and he collapses.

That brings Maedhros back to himself.

Mablung and his party aren't heavily armed. They were only meant to be messengers, after all. They get a few shots in at the wolf, who runs off, still maddened.

Maglor isn't moving isn't talking and there's so much blood—

(to be continued)

[zealouswerewolfcollector]

Maedhros and Fingon speak of thralldom. A sequel to this, but I think it can be read separately. 1082 words, T

On Ao3

“Are we in danger?”

Startled, Fingon wondered how long Maedhros had been awake, observing him with his too-bright gaze. If he were just a little stronger, he would have every chance to attack Fingon and overpower him, catching him unawares.

“What makes you think so?” Fingon asked.

“You keep reaching for the dagger you have hidden.”

Fingon’s hand twitched around the hilt. He snatched it back.

“There have been sightings of orcs in the mountains,” he said.

It was not a lie. It felt like one, but it wasn’t.

“Do you have reason to believe they will attack the camp?” Maedhros asked.

“You can never be too careful.”

Fingon bore Maedhros’s gaze without blinking. Without even breathing.

“In that case, perhaps I should have a weapon too?” Maedhros said.

One second, two, three. A little more and Fingon’s silence would be suspicious.

“You are in no state to fight,” he said.

“No, but trust me, even left-handed, I can stab an orc in the eye.”

“There is no need for a weapon,” Fingon said. “I am just being overly cautious.”

“How very unlike you.” Maedhros reclined against the pillows and closed his eyes. “But then, what do I know?”

Fingon released his breath in quiet, short bursts. The dagger was scorching his skin even over layers of clothes.

“It is for me, isn’t it?” Maedhros asked without opening his eyes.

Fingon could not think of a lie fast enough. The moment was gone. Now his denial would not sound genuine.

“My father—” No, he would not lay the blame on his father alone in front of a son of Fëanor. “My father and I believe we should be prepared for any possibility.”

“Very reasonable,” Maedhros said.

“You must understand. It is best to err on the side of caution.”

“Of course,” Maedhros said serenely. “I suppose considering other options, such as trying to break the Enemy’s hold on my mind or even simply restraining me, is not cautious enough.”

“Would you want it?” Fingon asked, unwilling to admit that the thought of other options hadn't even crossed his mind.

“Would you?”

“We have not discussed in depth what is to be done if the worst happens.”

“But you have determined that the task of killing me should fall to you. Or are there going to be others with hidden daggers guarding my door?”

“I thought you would want it to be me.”

It sounded pitiful enough even without Maedhros’s mirthless laughter.

“What a romantic notion. Do you regret missing your chance to end my life?”

Nowadays, Fingon could never tell if Maedhros’s words were a callous jape or if he truly spoke what was on his mind. Sometimes, it seemed to him that Maedhros delighted in tormenting him.

“Was I wrong in assuming so?” he asked, determined to ignore Maedhros’s bleak suggestion.

“Findekáno, if I am a mindless thrall, do you think I would care who kills me? Perhaps you and your father believe I would hesitate to fight back if it were you before me. You must know very little of Moringotto’s thralls.”

“Perhaps you would like to enlighten us?”

The words burst out before Fingon could stop them, leaving deep, bleeding gashes in his throat. Maedhros bared his teeth in what he must believe was a grin.

“I would,” he said, “but until you are certain I am myself, you should not believe a word that comes out of my mouth.”

Fingon felt the sea salt on his tongue. Maedhros’s short hair was fire-bright against the pale pillows. Fingon closed his eyes.

“I am curious,” Maedhros said. “What prompted this? Was it my decision to cede the crown? Isn’t it what Finwenolofinwë has been coveting all this time?”

“Do not speak of my father that way,” Fingon said, glad that anger pushed all else aside.

“What way? Did he not name himself Finwenolofinwë and chase the crown while Finwë’s eldest son and heir still lived? I gave him what he wanted, and he is still suspicious, but no doubt, he believes himself so different from my father.”

Fingon didn’t want to think of the reasons for Maedhros’s bitterness. Didn’t want to wonder if Maedhros was angry because he was suspected or because he was discovered.

“You do not help your case by speaking so,” Fingon said, nearly pleading.

“Should I smile and sweet talk you and your father to prove I am not in the Enemy’s grasp? Will it convince you? As I said, you know very little of Moringotto’s thralls.”

Fingon couldn’t find an answer. Whatever he thought to say seemed irrelevant and unimportant. He silently watched Maedhros struggle to sit up on the bed.

“Come closer,” Maedhros said once he had successfully crawled up.

“What?”

“Come closer. What are you afraid of? You are the one with a weapon.”

Fingon walked to him, clenching his fists to stop himself from reaching for the dagger.

“My height is an advantage in a fight,” Maedhros said. “See these two ribs? Use them and my right knee to bring me down. Shattered and healed too many times, they will remain a weakness. My right shoulder will also hinder me, but I believe you are aware of it.”

Fingon didn’t speak for a long time. He stood, powerless to look away from Maedhros and just as powerless to stop his mind from constructing scenarios where he would put Maedhros’s advice to use.

“You just said not to believe a single word from you,” he finally spoke, desperate.

Maedhros grinned at him.

“Use your best judgment.”

Fingon had almost drowned once in an ice well upon the Helcaraxë. He had flailed helplessly as the freezing water had filled his lungs and the ice had closed rapidly overhead. In the dark water, he had lost the sense of direction and swam to the bottom of the well until the strong hands of his father grabbed him and pulled him out.

Now he felt just as directionless.

Maedhros’s quivering shoulders shook him out of his thoughts.

“Are you cold?” Fingon asked.

Maedhros looked at him, uncomprehending.

“You are trembling.”

Fingon put a hand on Maedhros’s shoulder. Maedhros stopped breathing. Fingon quickly stepped back.

“Are you cold?” he asked again.

“Yes,” Maedhros said after nearly a minute. “I am cold.”

Fingon scrambled to find a blanket and covered Maedhros, who had lain down, his back to Fingon.

He didn’t speak again. Fingon sat by his side, his hand hovering over the dagger but never touching it.

[dalliansss]

It happens precisely as Finrod and Maedhros plan and predict it to be. Angrod does let slip crucial information to Thingol: their deeds, their numbers. Their forces. Caranthir makes a show of his infamous temper: vitriol is thrown against Angrod, in such vehemence that everybody there present can only believe its honesty, and only the most perceptive will know it is an act. A small push to enforce the shove, a little drop of the reagent to spur further chemical reaction; the little crack in the ice forestalling the avalanche–

But the reminder that Arafinwe – Finarfin, on these lands – remains a lord of the Noldor, though Earwen be of other kin– 

An uncharacteristic coldness comes over Finrod’s beautiful face then, though he hangs onto his patience and control and temper with all claws he ever possessed. He knows Caranthir is provoking him; provoking him into showing his hand, exposing himself, to unearth his plan to abscond East while everybody else is embroiled with the technicalities of rebuilding society. The great wildlands of the East, where the greatest potential of Beleriand lay undiscovered–

He and Caranthir look at each other across the table, and Finrod is keenly, sharply aware Maedhros is watching too, as is Fingon. But Finrod wins this round; he says naught, refuses to rise to the bait, and there is the faintest twitch in Caranthir’s temple. Not today, Kinslayer, Finrod thinks. 

“King is he who can hold his own, lest his title be in vain,” Maedhros says, breaking the deadlock between his cousin and brother. “This Thingol does naught but point to us lands where he does not hold power. The Noldor will thank him for this gift, and he will soon regret not coming here himself to treat with us.”

A pause. Caranthir bristles subtly. Galadriel holds her breath, and Finrod senses her tense. They come to it, this one specific moment in history that–

“Yet there is a greater matter here, that the Noldor must acknowledge. I, High King Nelyafinwe Maitimo Feanorion of the House of Feanaro, decree this to be mine official act, made in clear mind and aware of all consequences appurtenant hereto.  Hereafter I abdicate the crown and throne in favor of Nolofinwe Arakano Finwion, of the House of Finwe.”

It is as if Maedhros reached across the table and slapped Finrod across the face.

[stone on the board / AO3]

[caenith]

The very beginning of the First Age was such a bad time for Fingolfin:

his youngest son is killed,*

he learns that his older brother, who is the reason why all of them are right now in Beleriand, has been dead for a while,

one of his nephews is a prisoner in Angband and nobody really knows his fate,

a civil war might start any day now - Fingolfin's people are not in the best mood after the horrors of Helcaraxë and Fëanor's host did not follow Fëanor because of their love for Ñolofinwë.

And now his OLDEST SON AND HEIR, precious Fingon DISAPPEARS. Maybe someone saw him leaving the camp and going north, with just a bow and his harp? Or maybe they suddenly realize that prince Findekáno has not returned from his walk? Anyway, Fingolfin panics - this is a dangerous, unknown land. Angband is so close. Orcs can be anywhere. It could even be another trap set up by Morgoth to capture yet another prince. But Fingolfin can't stand losing another child. He won't lose another child.

If elves' hair could turn gray as a consequence of stress, Fingon would surely be welcomed back in the camp by a white-haired figure strangely resembling his father.

And just as Fingolfin can finally sit down and rest (Fingon is most certainly grounded, Maedhros seems to be recovering, feanorians behave, at least for now), he gets the crown. No rest for poor Ñolofinwë, apparently. Just new responsibilities.

*if we consider a version of the story that includes Argon, what we will most certainly do for the maximum drama :)

[eight-pointed-star]

fics where someone goes to angband instead of/with maedhros

[in the brackets are the characters who are captured]

For Want of a Crown by theScrap_Witch [maglor]

The Price We Pay by theScrap_Witch [maglor]

A Perfect Pair by SunflowerSupreme [finrod and maglor]

A Songbird in Angband by AdmirableMonster (Mertiya) [maglor]

Mountains Don't Sing by MathConcepts [maedhros and fingon]

Animal Skins by Ilye [celegorm]

In Gold gefasst and Prized Jewel by Siana [maedhros and maglor]

A Fair Evil by Siana [maedhros and maglor]

A Broken Voice by Silentx13 [maglor]

Wisdom Prevails by Ardruna [nerdanel]

What If It Hadn't Been Maedhros? by ArvenaPeredhel [maglor, celegorm, caranthir, curufin, amras] (it's five different stories, not "all of them get captured together")

Aphonia and Mother Who Bore Me by ArvenaPeredhel [maglor]

Hard Choices and Silenced by waitingfover [maglor]

+ two in russian

Услышь меня, брат... by Nolofinve [feanor]

Кроме пыли и пепла by vinyawende [feanor]

this list probably isn't comprehensive, if you know more fics with a similar plot, please tell me!

if you are the author of one of the fics here and would like to be @'ed or to have your fic removed from here, please tell me! if i made a mistake in the descriptions tell me also

[fflewddur-feanorion]

***More story under the cut!**

A concept: orc Maedhros.

When Maitimo is led out of Angband’s dungeons, he can barely recognize his own reflection. His teeth are pointed like a shark’s, and two small tusks jut out of his mouth.  His skin feels thick and leathery. His eyes glow with a faint yellowish light.

Morgoth peers down at the newly formed Orc huddled at his feet. He is particularly proud of this experiment. “Join me,” he says. “You have no other choice. The Elves will never accept an Orc in their midst.”

But Maitimo’s spirit still burns like a white fire within. (In this way, at least, he is his father’s son.) He glares up at Morgoth, baring his newly formed fangs. “There is always another choice.”

And so Maitimo is chained to the mountain. 

The Orcs notice him immediately. At first, they’re wary of the stranger attached to the cliff face– but how bad could he really be? He’s not an elf or anything. 

A few Orcs begin talking to him when they pass by. Sometimes they taunt him. Sometimes they talk about the weather (it’s hot. It’s always hot) or their comrades (bastards, the lot of them) or gossip (“I got a new schmitar and she didn’t even notice.”)

Eventually, Maitimo learns some Orcish. "How terrible for you," he says when an Orc is complaining about some minor inconvenience. "I don't know how you live like this."

The mountain is horrific, of course, but it would have been worse for an Elf. Maitimo’s lungs filter toxins from the poisoned air. His clawed hands and feet cling to the mountain face, keeping him stable during storms. His thick, leathery skin shields him from debris. Weeks turn into months, which turn into years.

Then Fingon marches up to the foot of the mountain, frostbitten, scarred, exhausted, and utterly fearless. He prays to the Valar for help. Maybe the eagle appears. Or maybe it doesn’t, and Fingon climbs the mountain on his own. The outcome is the same, give or take a few bruises.

Maitimo went to Angband, but it is Maedhros who gives up the crown. “A king is he that holds his own,” he says. (The Noldor will never have an Orc as their king. Morgoth was right about this, at least.)

He moves to Himring. (It’s not officially exile, but Maedhros can’t exactly return.) Himring turns out to be a good place for an Orc. The cloudy sky keeps his skin from blistering, and the frigid air is-- oddly-- easier to breathe than the warm, clean breezes in Mithrim.

At first, the Noldor refuse to follow him. Who in their right mind would follow an Orc to a desolate fortress at the gates of hell? Then, just as Maedhros is beginning to lose hope, a thrall straggles in from Angband. When Maedhros asks his name, he doesn’t respond.

“Okay,” Maedhros growls as kindly as possible. “I’m going to call you Erestor. If you don’t like it, you can choose something else.”

More thralls arrive. They are joined by a lone Dwarf, a handful of humans, two Easterling outcasts, some Nolofinwëans fresh off the Helcaraxë, and-- yes-- a few Orcs.

Erestor discovers he has a gift for languages and quickly picks up Quenya, Sindarin, Westron, and a hint of Khuzdûl. He appoints himself Maedhros’ seneschal. This is never discussed, but both he and Maedhros are extremely pleased.

There are bad days, of course. Sometimes Maedhros can't quite accept that this scarred, clawed body belongs to him. Sometimes he's overflowing with anger-- at Morgoth, at Fëanor for bringing him to this accursed continent, at his brothers who hunt Orcs like it's a game.

Himring comforts him. Maedhros has built a sanctuary in a place where life should not exist, and that, more than anything, is a victory against Morgoth.

"Why do you surround yourself with danger?" Maglor asks once he's finally worked up the courage to visit. "Surely there have been assassination attempts, living with... you know."

(There have been. They're surprisingly rare, and Maedhros has always been a light sleeper.)

Maedhros looks out the window. It's snowing today. The Easterlings and Elves are running through the courtyard, flinging handfuls of snow at each other. Erestor watches from the sidelines, head thrown back in laughter. "I surround myself with friends," he says. "Make of that what you will."

A concept: orc Maedhros, who makes the world a little kinder than it might have been.

[eccentricmya]

It's interesting how, in the Maedhros poll, everybody believes he started out as a good person. Whether he later turns into a misguided soul, or an anti-hero, or an anti-villain, or straight up villain is up for debate. But the consensus on him being morally good at the beginning is unanimous (or that is how it seems to me, given how I favourably worded the poll).

I find this fascinating because I disagree. I don't think he was ever a good person; he wasn't evil but he wasn't good good.

He showed loyalty and care towards his loved ones, yet he never went out of his way to help others, nor was any particularly good deed attributed to him. Have we seen him interacting in good faith with people outside the Noldor? (But he looked for Dior's twins! Did he find them though? It's the thought that counts! Well, his thought might as well have been to capture them for ransom, who knows?)

Some examples of a character being good are Fingon, he gambled his own life to rescue Maedhros, swept in at Alqualonde thinking the Noldor were being unjustly attacked. Even Caranthir is shown to possess compassion when he rescued the Haladin. Maglor famously slew a traitor, fostered their enemy's twins, and argued to break the Oath. Finrod was often found mingling with Men and willingly walked into the enemy's lair and thus to his death, all to repay a life-saving grace.

Amidst all this, what has Maedhros done to be called 'good'? He stood aside at Losgar but did not take any action to stop it or remedy it. Indeed, he stood aside at all for Fingon, not for Idril, or Finduilas or any of the others. Then he 'begged forgiveness for the desertion in Aman' and gave up his crown to keep peace, but the question arises, why could he not ensure harmony between the factions if he was King and repenting? Was it fear of his faction's arrogance or the distrust of the other? But a king is he that can hold his own, and Maedhros knew he could not do that. I think this act was a play at leaving with his head held high than to have himself be dispossessed of it. He might not be power hungry but he was pride-driven.

Then came the Dagor Bragollach. Most of the Fëanorions are driven out of their strongholds. Where was Maedhros? We have Finrod trying to help his brothers, while he himself is saved by Beor in turn. And in the end, it is Fingolfin challenging Morgoth to get revenge, if not reprieve, for his people. Where was Maedhros? He did deeds of surpassing valour to defend his own fortress. The narrative never has him extending a helping hand to anyone.

Then comes the Union of Maedhros, the alleged helping hand. An attempt to gather Beleriand together to fight against Morgoth. But was it to defeat the Enemy once and for all, ridding the people of his tyranny? Or was it to retrieve the Silmarils? Here too, Maedhros was asking for help, not giving it. Maedhros and his brothers only ever stood against the Vala because of their Oath and personal vendetta. It was never about 'oh but Morgoth is the enemy of all free people'. Their reasons were not altruistic.

Maedhros was never portrayed as virtuous or kind or empathetic. His descriptions in canon (if we can rely on its consistency) all leaned towards how lethal he was. That is not the mark of a good person. It is easy to forget Alqualonde in light of Doriath and Sirion, but never was it said that Maedhros did not kill in the first kinslaying. If the text could note him standing aside at Losgar, if 'good person' Maedhros ever aimed to maim instead of kill at Alqualonde, we would've known. But it didn't happen. He willingly shed blood, made no attempts to diffuse the situation, and agreed with his father 'to seize all the ships and depart suddenly' while leaving the rest behind. All this before his capture and trauma induced personality changes.

He did repent some things: the desertion of Fingolfin, Doriath, Elured and Elurin (note the lack of Alqualonde and Sirion). His repeated offences though, minimise any redemptive value this could've held. Moreover, did he ever send aid to the refugees at Sirion? Did he ever compensate all those who lost their loved ones on the Ice? So did Maedhros truly repent or was it again the thought that counts?

Maedhros may not have started with sins staining his records, but he also did not start with virtues painting him golden. He was deemed a good guy, simply by virtue (one of very few) of not being a bad one.

[welcomingdisaster]

Firstborn women is fascinating. How exactly does it change the dynamics or the canon events? And more importantly, lesbian Russingon?

lesbian russingon yess!! here is. a tiny little fraction of the dynamics in that verse, namely the finwe-feanor-fingolfin-turgon-fingon mess

okay so. for the sake of this au, we are swapping every single firstborn son to a firstborn daughter. for those who wed (which is just fëanor), their spouses also swap to fit most easily into the au

also for the take of this post i'm not swapping anyone's name around. but i DO know they are gendered and would swap them if i actually wrote this

so, finwe's beloved baby from his first marriage is a daughter. his first child from his second marriage a son. this creates a very natural dynamic of intense jealousy between them, where feanor expects that fingolfin is going to get everything as the first-born son and she will get nothing

she is also the clear favorite, an extremely controversial figure in court, and a genius. usual feanor stuff, but take it up to eleven with the tendency to break social norms + inheritance angst

eventually finwe announces that he is changing the law to make a one-time exception to allow his eldest daughter to be crown prince rather than his son. no this will not apply to any other woman in valinor. this is the special princess law for his specialest princess

you can imagine fingolfin's feelings re: this. he says nothing but deep down is extremely frustrated at the blatant favoritism, and feels his father would never do something like that for him

[time passes i am skipping over a lot of stuff to get to the point]

cut to: fingolfin's own family. in this case, eldest daughter fingon, middle child and only boy turgon, little aredhel.

fingon is very much fingolfin's favorite kid, as i believe is true for usual canonverse also

but he's raged!! a million times over!! about how unfair it is to show special favor to the eldest. he will not be his father in this. he will stick to his own ideas of fairness & the law. he is very much raising turgon to be the heir (even as he secretly wants to give fingon everything) and he's weirdly resentful of turgon re: this.

fingon is also kinda resentful of turgon re: this. if they had all been daughters, there would be no problem and she'd just be the heir presumptive, but he has to go and be a boy. fucking ugh

you can imagine why turgon fucks off to gondolin

[lendmyboyfriendahand]

My concept of Fingon is that he's very motivated by justice, specifically in a sense of making things fair and balanced after they have been unfair. Ideally with full restitution for the loss.

This is normally a good thing - Men who risk their lives in battle for his family are rewarded with titles and land and cool helmets; Morgoth should be killed for wrecking the peace of Valinor and killing Finwe; Maedhros should be allowed to recover in safety after Thangorodrim.

Sometimes it leads to him demanding recompense, like after crossing the Helcaraze when he asked what the host of Feanor would do to make up for their hardship. The Feanorians gave up the crown and a herd of horses and although it wasn't perfectly fair, it was a step towards fairness. Fingon doesn't like it, but with time he has learned to live with it. He's one of the victims in this case, so permitting injustice to be done to himself is actually easier in a sense; the wronged have the right to revenge and healing, but no one can force you to use your rights.

When it gets tricky though is when restitution is impossible, and even partial recompense in unlikely. Such as after Alqualonde, when the Teleri are now on the opposite side of the Sea. It itches at Fingon that he can't go and make it right; that even if he went and gave them all he had and worked for centuries he couldn't make up for it. It bothers Fingon even more that he's not even going to try, that he's just going to sit here and wait, focus on the issues in front of him and not to anything about the horrible wrong he's committed.

It would be so much easier to think of it as not wrong at all. Then he could rest easily. After all, Fingon owes Maedhros nothing for cutting off his hand, as it was necessary in order to save his life. If stealing the ships and killing elves was necessary to save Beleriand from Morgoth, might it be justified? And then Fingon would not have committed a crime that he is unable to fix, he would just have harmed people due to unavoidable circumstances. The war against Morgoth has given him a lot of practice at dealing with unavoidable circumstances where every path leads to harm, whether caused by himself or others, and he knows that it doesn't make him evil.

Fingon has to watch himself carefully not to grant forgiveness or permission for the First Kinslaying, either to himself or to his cousins. So every morning he recites a list of wrongs that he cannot make right, but that should not be accepted or forgotten.

[thelordofgifs]

A Completely Objective Rating of Gil-galad Origin Theories

So! My Research(tm) has informed me that Tolkien conceived of at least four potential parentages for Gil-galad, last High King of the Noldor, at various points. This plothole/controversy/mystery is deeply, deeply funny to me, so I decided to make a post arbitrarily rating various Gil-galad theories and providing examples of fics where they appear.

Some disclaimers:

I am very very new to the silm fandom and also tumblr and don't actually know anything! so there is a very high chance something will go wrong here

in compiling this I was very much indebted to this post by @sweetteaanddragons and this one by @tanoraqui

your headcanons, of course, are extremely valid! no shade at all to anyone who likes one of the theories I’ve rated a bit lower, and thank you for doing your bit to deepen the controversy. the more Gil-galad theories the better

Unsurprisingly, this turned out LONG. I split the parentages into four sections: Part 1 covers supposedly canon/canon-adjacent Gil-galad theories; Part 2, popular fanon theories that I've seen in a variety of places; Part 3 will cover rare fanon theories that I've only seen basically once, and ideas I literally just made up myself.

Baseline assumptions I'm using:

The "historical record", in-universe, is primarily the Quenta Silmarillion which states that Ereinion Gil-galad was the son of Fingon; and other documents variously suggesting that he was the son of Orodreth or Finrod, or a descendant of Fëanor. Sources give him the additional names Finellach and Artanáro/Rodnor.

It's fairly widely agreed-upon that Gil-galad was an adult and the High King by the time of the Third Kinslaying, when he was based on Balar and came too late to Elwing's aid.

(This means I won't further consider some rather fun, cracky theories that are based on the argument that Gil-galad only became the High King after the War of Wrath. That seems like a slightly excessive amount of historical revisionism for my taste, when he's named as the High King well before the WoW.)

So, with those established, what makes for a good Gil-galad parentage theory?

It has to make the confusion in the historical record, in-universe, make some sort of sense. Would someone with this parentage have a claim to the crown? If not, do they have a solid motivation to lie about it? Providing a neat explanation for other aspects of Gil-galad's characterisation and the way he rules would also be a bonus.

A storytelling concept I call weird questions must have weird answers. Neat origin theories that "make sense" tend to score low on this metric. The Gil-galad controversy is funny and needs to be kept that way.

How narratively satisfying is the theory? Does it ruin anyone else's arc, or fanon I personally like? Then it's scoring low.

This is already so long-

Time for looking at the four canon-ish Gil-galad parentages!

Gil-galad son of Fingon and, presumably, some unnamed wife. This is rubbish. Makes no sense. Not a fan. No. Primarily, it is boring, the death knell to any Gil-galad theory. Also, Fingon is never actually mentioned to have a wife because he's married to Maedhros and, while textual ghosts are obviously common in the Silm, I find it slightly harder to believe that a High Queen of the Noldor managed to escape being named anywhere. You could, I suppose, argue that she died before Fingon became King, but I don't want to. The confusion in the historical record also seems unnecessary here, because Fingon's son would presumably have a pretty ironclad claim to the crown after his death and certainly after Turgon's. No fic recs here, I don't like this theory. 2/10.

Gil-galad son of Orodreth and brother of Finduilas. Even more boring, and also makes less sense. Was Gil-galad in Nargothrond during Leithian and up to its fall? In that case, why wasn't he mentioned at any point, and if he survived the fall of Nargothrond and escaped, why didn't he go after Finduilas? If he wasn't in Nargothrond by the time of Turin, we can at least forgive his failure to rescue his sister, but why was he sent away from Nargothrond when, prior to the building of the bridge, everyone believed it was safe - and why wasn't Finduilas sent away with him? Again, there's no particular reason for obfuscating this parentage, so it fails on that metric too. At least Artanáro/Rodnor is a good Finarfinion name. Fics which use this theory: What is Wrought Between Us by @nikosheba, which voids all these objections of mine quite nicely - Gil-galad son of Orodreth, adopted by Fingon and Maedhros! Also it's one of the most heart-breaking, beautiful, canon-compliant Russingon series around, go and read it. That excellent example aside, 3/10.

Gil-galad son of Finrod and (iirc) a wife called Meril. An earlier version of the legendarium discarded when Finrod was made childless. This is potentially my least favourite of the four canon-esque theories, because Finrod's childlessness is imo a fairly important part of his arc, and Meril was replaced by Amarië, to whom Finrod was very much not married at the time of his death. Pretty much the only positive is that, again, Artanáro/Rodnor suits well as a name for Finrod's son. I don't think many people like this theory - we need not consider it further here. No fic recs. 2/10.

Gil-galad descendant of Fëanor. By far the most intriguing and also most implausible canon-esque theory, and as I understand only from one early draft of the legendarium. But there is so much to play with here. If Gil-galad's father is one of the sons of Fëanor, he has a rock-solid reason to lie about his parentage. His claim to the throne is also dubious, because Maedhros abdicated on behalf of the entire house. This gives excellent con-artist Gil-galad flavours to play with. On the narrative/emotional arc metric, this one falls a little short, though. We don't need another descendant of Fëanor in the Second Age struggling with the dark and messy legacy of their family - we have Celebrimbor! And Celebrimbor's status as the last scion of his house, and how his eventual tragedy owes so much to his heritage, is very important to me. Besides, the house of Fëanor going from 7 sons in the first generation to literally just one grandchild is so haunting. On a more practical level, I also don't think Gil-galad reads as particularly close to Celebrimbor? They seem more "distant relations" than first cousins. On the other hand, if Gil-galad simply doesn't know who his parents are, a lot of these problems disappear. We can also double up a few textual ghosts by making his mother one of the unnamed wives - preferably Maglor's or Caranthir's, because Gil-galad son of Curufin feels. doubtful. Fics which use this theory: A Gift from Father to Son by @amethysttribble explores every single potential Fëanorian parentage which is very fun, for a value of "fun" involving "sobbing on the floor about how terrible all these people are". Check it out! Theory as a whole gets 5/10.

[southfarthing]

Maedhros tries.

The guilt, the overwhelming debt of it all, weighs down on him as he turns from Fingon to his uncle, Fingolfin. It pushes him to his knees as he pleads for forgiveness despite the whispers behind him. But he lifts his chin and looks Fingolfin in the eye, and this time it is Maedhros’s turn to word his oaths.

‘Do you think you will ever regret it?’ Fingon asks later.

They are at the edge of the hall at Mithrim, sat by the gasping remains of the fire. Maedhros runs his fingers along his wounded arm, stopping abruptly short of the cloth where his hand should be.

The pain is sharp, but worse is the loss itself.

‘Will you regret saving my life?’ he asks quietly.

The crown he had never touched. His sword-hand, though, was his pride. His shame.

‘Of course not.’

At the other end of the hall, through the low light, he sees the grave faces of brothers who believed him dead: who left him for dead and now, only days after seeing him alive once more, scorn him for the title he has left untouched.

It was Fingon who found him. Fingon who saved him, despite the burning of boats and bonds and honour.

‘I wish there had been a better way to do it,’ Fingon adds in a slow, sure voice. ‘But I would rather you were alive than dead.’

Maedhros is glad to hear the firmness of Fingon’s voice once again. The cries and broken song at Thangorodrim he wants to forget.

He lets his hand fall to his side. ‘And I would rather be alive among my kin than a king chained.’

Fingon looks at him, and Maedhros wonders if he, too, is thinking of the way in which they left the shores of Aman. Shores that bled horrors into the sea.

Fingon followed him down into damnation, and still he sought him beyond hope. Perhaps it is Maedhros’s turn to follow Fingon’s lead, now.

-

Maedhros tries.

Snow brushes his face, hot with wrath and exertion, as he stands tall among the limp foes at his feet. His sword drips steaming blood behind him as he strides forward.

He didn’t think he could ever wield a blade again, and yet it swings from his left hand as naturally as it did his right, if not more so. There is a fire within him, a fire that he never thought he would inherit from his father.

But like Fëanor was robbed of his Silmarils, Maedhros, too, has been robbed. And for every day he hung from those cruel rocks, he will stain the land with another of Morgoth’s mockeries.

He won’t swear to it, but the thought burns in his mind, licking at the corners of his conscience until his sword pierces orc-flesh.

His words to Fingon, too, echo in his head – he is alive, unchained, unhindered. And he is not alone.

Ahead, he sees the banners of Fingolfin swaying in the wind.

-

Maedhros tries.

He tries so, so hard. He brings peoples, kings, armies together. And after the fury and deceptive hope, all that’s left is death.

He doesn’t know where Fingon’s body is, if a body remains. He watches as Turgon’s host retreats, slinks back to Gondolin. Maedhros is too numb to do anything, say anything.

The fire hasn’t been fully stomped out, but what’s left among the bruised embers turns against him.

-

He doesn’t want to keep trying, but he has slain kin once. He does it again.

The oath keeps him steadfast, though steadfastness is not a word he would choose as he looks around the decimated throne room. His brothers lay dead; the young king lays dead. And the one thing that could justify such brutality is gone.

The girl ran, they say, or she died. She cannot be found. And what of the other two children? The two little boys, the ones that reminded him of Amrod and Amras?

Maedhros rushes from the silent caves and into the woods, Maglor at his heels. They search in silence, and a voice in Maedhros’s head, one that sounds uncomfortably like Fingon’s, tells him that his search for the boys rather than for the Silmaril shows he isn’t utterly lost, even though the blood on his blade hasn’t yet dried.

But they never find the boys, and Maedhros looks at Maglor in the grey-green shadows.

-

These boys will live, Maedhros thinks. Maglor will see to it.

The fight has left him. The Silmaril is gone. Between Morgoth and the sea he can never cross, he lingers. In the early mornings, he wonders if it would have been better if he had died long ago, in some valiant struggle against evil.

The sun rises weakly, and Maedhros closes his eyes.

-

He can stop. He can turn back, Maglor says. Beg for redemption, try for forgiveness.

That’s the word – try. Maedhros has done nothing but try. Try to grab a hold of the noose pulling him on, reign it in, lead it himself. But the two remaining Silmarils are there, and Morgoth is gone. A fate he never believed he would see, once the initial fire of the oath had dampened on the shores of Middle Earth.

The end to his torment, the reward for his toil, within his grasp.

No. He cannot turn back from this. It ends here, in victory or in death. He makes one last effort and closes his hand around the Silmaril.

-

(though here at journey's end I lie - crossposted to ao3)

[sweetteaanddragons]

Hi

Huge fan of your writing here. I was wondering if you had any ideas for a sequel to your ‘A Question of Precedence’ AU. No need to answer if you dont feel like just my imagination running wild lol but i was curious about how Feanor meeting Fingolfin, Finarfin, Lalwen and their wives and kids would go down. I imagine it would be strange to meet you brother who died as an infant (something which caused your father a lot of trauma and grief) as an adult with a wife and kid. What was their opinion on Feanor before Finwe was slain and Feanor reborn. Did they ever feel like their father loved them less?Would Feanor + siblings get along better in this AU or just about the same ? What was it like for Finwe to die and meet his son and ex wife only for them to leave to live with Vaire ? What was it like for Findis to raise her famously chaotic brother? Are they close? What’s it like for Indis to lose her husband and have his dead child brought back in his stead and then have said child raised to be king a title which previously belonged to her children. What would the relationship be between the sons of Feanor and their cousins ? how is Feanor viewed by those that stayed in Valinor and those that left especially after he chose to aid his kin in Beleriand.

This got a bit longer than intended so again no need at all to answer i just love your writing ❤️💕

Thank you so much! It took me a minute to remember that AU - it's been a while!

(For those who also don't remember, this was my AU in which Feanor died as an infant when Miriel did. All of his half-siblings except Findis still end up going to fight in Beleriand; Findis stays and ends up raising him when Feanor is released from the Halls. Feanor, for his part, ends up leading the reinforcements to Middle Earth.)

I think meeting Feanor is definitely strange for the siblings that went to Middle Earth, especially because of the circumstances. They are used to thinking of him as a Tragedy™, not a full grown force of nature riding to the rescue.

I do think they'd get along better in this AU; a Feanor raised reasonably well by Findis is not going to be raised to resent his siblings, and the attachment to his father that he was so afraid of the others usurping is going to look very different here. He also isn't worried about competing with the others for the crown; Findis raises him to know that it's his as soon as he's old enough, and the others aren't there to fight for it.

His relationship to Indis is still complicated, I think; she knows Finwe chose to remain dead in order to give him a chance to return, and part of her does resent that, but on the other hand, she's ashamed of resenting a baby for anything, especially that. The issues between her and Findis regarding Indis's perceived abandonment might actually cause as many issues between Feanor and her as the remarriage does.

For a long time, Feanor's sons have no relationship with their cousins, for obvious reasons. This changes with Fingon's resurrection; they are very, very eager to get to know him, and he is very, very eager to encourage them to go fight in Beleriand . . . though he feels a bit guilty about that. Whatever their actual ages, he can't help thinking they're too young to be dragged into this.

Once they get to Beleriand, their surviving cousins have an interesting mix of "Reinforcements! I love you!" and . . . possibly some resentment? Because they've been fighting this war all this time, and here their younger cousins come sweeping in, all shining and golden from Valinor to win the day without the centuries of hopeless warfare. Once they get to know them, some of those relationships improve.

(Some get worse.)

In general, the Noldor in Beleriand see Feanor as a hero and a particularly shining symbol of hope - if even Finwe's long lost son has returned, surely all darkness can be overcome! The ones in Valinor see him as less of a symbol, but he is still their respected king (though there might have been some dissent about showing up as reinforcements.)